August 3rd. Two Canadian A.M.C. orderlies were grousing that they hadn't left God's Own Country to sit twiddling their thumbs in Boulogne. "We volunteered for active service," says one. "Can't you picture it years hence," says the second. "Your children around you asking, like the little boy in the picture, 'And what did you do in the great war, Daddy?' 'Scrubbed floors, my son!'"

They did not grouse in vain. Two days later they were drafted to Gallipoli, where no doubt they will see all the active service their brave young souls demand—and a good deal more, perhaps. They must be magnificent fighters, these Colonials, whose regime allows of their initiative having full scope.

August 12th. Yesterday the mail boat came in accompanied by two destroyers.

"Royalty is coming," clamoured the French. "Royalty is expected," echoed the men. And, having received an intimation three days back that Royalty was expected, we awaited developments in our best workaday frocks.

Presentation at their Majesties' Court is a simple matter compared with the excitement of receiving a Princess in France. I do not wish to infer that the Princess was anything but her charming Royal self!

It was the long retinue that preceded and succeeded her, the curiosity of our French friends as to who was coming (curiosity that we in the know were not permitted to satisfy), the air of breathless expectancy, that made the visit and inspection a thing to be remembered. And in due course, the usual formalities being over, the presentations effected, our handiwork admired, we were left with the King's cheering message to rejoice the hearts of those of us who are already beginning to feel so tired and war worn.

"His Majesty sent an especial message to you workers in France, and desired me to tell you he considers the fine work you are carrying on so efficiently, of importance second only to that of the men in the trenches."

It was certainly a sufficient encouragement to "carry on."

August 13th. For a long time now we have hankered after some words to express all the heroism, the practical heroism, manifested around us. And when some Good Samaritan at home sent out a volume of Rupert Brooke's poems, it may be imagined how we acclaimed him forerunner of the poets who shall sing the greatest tragedy of history.

Almost simultaneously appeared the Times supplement of war poems. For a year now we have lived outside the charmed sphere of books, and these documents came as a revelation of the depths to which the cataclysm has moved our singers. We had thought them dumb by reason of its magnitude.

Kipling, we had been told, was "dead," so far as his influence over the nation went; but can the influence of the man who wrote "For all we have and are" die whilst his nation endures?

It may not be great poetry, but it is great patriotism.

And then there is the new school of poets who have arisen—new to us, that is to say—and who we are told may be heard reading their own poems every week in London in the mystical precincts of the poetry bookshops.

August 17th. We are working single-handed now. That is to say, whilst one lady is on leave a second is hors de combat with a bad leg, and, owing to the I.G.O. authorities' stringent regulations by which free lances (if there are any to be found) may not be pressed into service, there are only two of us, which makes it hard work.

And at home we hear of huts where the workers are tumbling over each other for numbers!

Perhaps one of the most interesting figures in this medley of men is a certain South African veteran, a blind V.C., the value of whose work amongst the wounded is immeasurable.

I last saw him being led down by a brother officer to the supper-room after a diplomatic Court at Buckingham Palace. Then all eyes were turned on him in pity; now one realises that the vast amount of good that this one man has been able to achieve—cheering on fellow-sufferers not yet accustomed to their affliction, showing men how it is possible to build up a new though sightless life—must have made his own suffering worth while.

The men worship him, and one word of good cheer from him is worth more than the ministration of a dozen clergymen.

On the whole the visits of the clergy are not hailed with much enthusiasm, their arrival being often looked upon as an omen of approaching death at the Base, or, in the firing-line, of a big advance.

August 23rd. A French orchestra was playing yesterday afternoon, and on the cliffs that form the lawns of No. —— Stationary Hospital were gathered together to greet the Royal guest the most fashionable crowd that the Base could produce. The whole scene, but for the white tents and blue-clad patients, might have been a smart seaside parade, for the camp commands an exquisite view of Boulogne, Wimereux and the distant coast of home. Suddenly, with a boom, a spurt of blackened debris, and a jet of water house-high, a distant boat was seen slowly to heel over and turn turtle.

Some attributed the cause to a floating mine, others to an ill-judged practice gun; but as the mail boat has neither come in nor gone out, as everyone is full of the sinking of the Arabic, we begin to believe the worst rumours—that a German submarine has at last got through into the Channel.

Later on, at an official dinner, the truth had not yet been fathomed.

That dinner is, perhaps, worthy of note, as for the first time we heard our Indian colleagues' views on the European upheaval.

Having exhausted my conversational powers with my dinner partner—a brawny Yorkshireman in a violent check suit and correspondingly odd accent, whose conversation for the most part consisted in repeatedly and dolefully asking if I knew what was the rate of exchange for the day (for the edification of posterity, be it noted, it is 27 francs 50 centimes)—I turned my attention to the native Christian Indian on my right. He was by no means lacking in topics of interest, chief amongst them being the effects of war upon India of the future. He spoke with the assurance of a man of education, being a barrister, and seemed to think that the broadening effect of their sojourn in Europe will be counteracted by the native adoption of Western vices.

An interesting fact to note is the total paralysation of all religious propagandist movements amongst the Indians. The work of the Y.M.C.A. amongst the natives at the moment is entirely non-religious. The secretaries act as interpreters, letter-writers, entertainers; they have evolved a wonderful system for keeping the men in touch with their kinsfolk—but any proselytising is strictly barred by the Army.

Not by even so much as the use of Y.M.C.A. notepaper—that might lead the natives at home to suspect their warriors of being influenced—is this verdict waived.

Nevertheless, it seems that the Indians have come to look upon the Association as "both father and mother," to use my informant's phrase, and turn to it for assistance in most peculiar matters. Said a Sikh to a local secretary to-day:

"Sahib, you go into town?"

"Yes."

"Sahib, I have one want."

"What is it?"

"Sahib, will you buy me two new teeth?"

August 30th. To counteract our little success at Hooge there is the news of the fall of Warsaw, of Ivangorod, and Brest Litovsk; while in Gallipoli a new landing at Suvla Bay and General Birdwood's advance at Anzac brings us such a list of casualties that we can only hope the venture is worth the cost.

Where, I wonder, is the crushing success Mr. Winston Churchill promised us, for which people at home were preparing to hang out their flags?